Abnormal behaviour
by DeannaReadX
Summary: Hermione knows its a risk when she takes Draco Malfoy on as a patient - especially when she's still in recovery herself. But as they start to make progress as psychiatrist and patient, their relationship develops in other ways as well. Ways neither of them had ever really anticipated.


So I've been working on this for a really long time, and its been really fucking difficult to finish because I couldn't decide on a cut off point. But I've sort of left it at a place where its open for interpretation and imagination, so make your own headcanons from it if you will.

This has a very psychoanalytic theme to it, and I've wanted to do something like this for ages, so I'm glad I've finally gotten it done. There's a bit of fluff, a reasonable chunk of angst, and a fair amount of sexual tension - it is dramione after all. And it has a nice ending, just so you all know, I don't want you to be put off by the painful stuff.

I'm proud of this one actually. I seem to have a habit of writing Hermione as the survivor of a miscarriage, I don't know why, its just so interesting to write about. So yeah, there are triggers in this for self-harmers and people who have been involved with miscarriages or the death of a young baby.

So, let me know what you think without being an asshole, and enjoy seeing as its not too bad.

Deexxx

* * *

"And we all know how to fake it baby, and we all know what we've done. We must be killers, children of the wild ones. Killers, where we got left to run?"

* * *

"You can't be hostile forever," she remarked, mirroring his nonchalance this time, sitting back in her arm chair, crossing her legs over and leaning on the left side of it, clip board settled comfortably in her lap, typically muggle pen twirling around her surprisingly manicured fingers. He enveloped his arms over his chest and swallowed, looking her straight in the eyes. She had the nerve to half-smile that little obvious smirk, so clichéd of therapists and psychiatrists; the knowing one that was supposed to give the false illusion that she could see right through him into the inner workings of his mind.

"On the contrary Granger," he replied "I'm rather skilled at prolonging hostility," he spoke in a low, irritated, patronising voice. He hated this. He felt like a moody teenager brought in for therapy to deal with his bad behaviour. That had always been the solution. Hire an expensive idiot to sit and prod at him for hours whilst he sat, unresponsive and snappy with a dark look on his face. It never got him anywhere and his Father always ended up a lot less wealthy. Not that it really even touched the surface of their assets of course. It was the equivalent of his mother investing in another large and extravagant collection of jewellery; pointless and overrated and disappointing in the long run.

"Oh I have no doubt of that," she sighed, raising one eyebrow "but you're currently emitting all the body language of a twelve year old boy challenging his teacher to push him too far. The arms," she gestured to his torso "the lowered chin," she pointed at that too "and the way you're absolutely refusing to break eye contact with me," she darted her tongue out to wet her battered lips and her small smile turned into more of a smirk when he shifted defiantly, sitting up, uncrossing his arms, and resting them on the arms of his own chair, lifting his chin. He still did not break the gaze though, instead he became more irritated when it only made her look smugger.

"That's better, bad posture will do horrible things to your spinal structure," she settled back into a smile and nodded at him once. He had to give it to her, she was bloody good at her job; her work wasn't doing anything for him yet, but he could tell she knew her shit and he doubted that she had left a single area of psychology, muggle or magical, unstudied and unlearned. Although, with a profession such as this, everything was so varied and complex; she probably learned on the go as well, each person was individually different, no matter how much the big guns tried to generalise.

"I am aware of how the human anatomy works Granger," he said distastefully, swallowing to get rid of the metallic taste in his mouth.

"Are you aware of the anatomical reasons for your mother's baby dying inside of her when you were fifteen then?" she asked, relentlessly blunt. He froze then, walls slamming up, face closing over as he felt the need to sit up even straighter, lean a little forward in fact, his cerulean blue eyes narrowing almost immediately of their own accord.

"Obviously," he snapped, glaring at her. She drew in another breath and stared at him for a moment before nodding once. She was about to ask another question when he cut her off, silently furious that she had hit that particular nerve.

"Didn't you lose a child once Granger?" he asked vindictively, aware that he was playing a dangerous game. He couldn't help it, she was making him so fucking angry all of a sudden, just the same as she had always been able to do. It was a low blow, but once he got started, he could never stop himself from going too far. He saw immediately that he had touched on one of her exposed nerves, one that really should have healed over by now, especially if she was wishing to excel in this area of work.

There was an absolutely livid silence between them for at least a minute before she pulled in a deep, closed breath, her jaw tense, throat tight as she swallowed and gathered herself. She tilted her head to the side slightly and although her posture said professional and patient, her chocolate brown eyes said pain and anger, although it wasn't necessarily all directed at him. He knew she probably still hadn't completely forgiven him for the way he had tormented her at Hogwarts, despite the fact that she had testified for him at his hearing after the war and most likely been the leading force in saving his hide from a lengthy sentence in Azkaban.

Oh this whole entire situation was so fucked up; he could not for the life of him fathom why on earth his mother thought it would be healthy and clever to employ Hermione Fucking Granger as his therapist. Looking at her now, she despised him and wanted to wring his neck for the pain he had caused her as an adolescent; their final academic year had only ended four years ago after all, that was hardly enough time to forgive and forget, especially not for two people who had hated each other as much as they had.

His ideals about the whole blood supremacy bullshit were long gone, buried the moment he'd taken the mark really, which was ironic and even more fucked up, when you really thought about it.

"You're deflecting," she breathed finally, when she had gotten a hold on her emotions; the ones that weren't even supposed to be present whilst she was attempting to treat him "but that's expected. You've already been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, a mild Narcissistic Personality Disorder, borderline severe anger issues, and a rather proficient ability to shift attention and blame onto others as a psychological mechanism and don't look at me like that," she said firmly "I'm your psychiatrist, of course I studied your file"

"You didn't study my bloody file because you're a psychiatrist," he shot with a distasteful stare "you studied the damn thing because you're you, and that's what you do Granger, you fucking study."

She looked at him again for a few moments before the anger truly left her eyes and she nodded, nibbling on her bottom lip again "yes I suppose you're right. Either way, it's my job and I'm bloody good at it. This is the most you've responded to any professional psychological aid since you were eleven and-" she broke off, skimming down the paper on her stupid fucking clipboard "you were being treated by Healer Phinstock" she smiled again. He wanted to wipe that damn smile of her face. But he didn't touch on her lost child again. Surprisingly, she did that of her own accord.

"And yes, in answer to your question, I lost my baby two years ago," she spoke levelly, ever the determined to remain as cool as possible in the face of opposition, he supposed, at least, that was one thing they had in common "it was prematurely born seven months in and it died when it was four days old. I was in remission all last year because I started self-harming as a result of it. Quite different, I'm told, to your mother's case. She carried the child for the full term, did she not?" she asked. He knew what she was doing, he'd read that god awful disgusting play about that creepy kid and the horse and the weird psychiatrist guy; she was being truthful about her issues, making herself vulnerable and human, so that he would feel he could do the same. Fat fucking chance of it.

"You know she fucking did Granger," he half-growled, irritated again "it's in the shitting file, isn't it?"

"Yes," she nodded, not even flinching at his vulgar language "she carried the child for the nine months but was unaware that for the final three weeks, it was dead in her stomach," she spoke, and he couldn't help visibly flinching. He didn't get emotional or sad, he just got angry and mean; but this was so incredibly personal, he wasn't going to pretend to himself that the entire situation hadn't been horribly traumatic. He had been there, in the delivery room. At the age of fifteen he had held his mother's sweaty hand and watched her heart smash into a million pieces around them as she waited desperately for the first cries of her dead, tiny baby. His little sister.

Being the Malfoys, they hadn't talked about it. With his mother in respite, mostly sitting around in her rest clothes all day not speaking a single word, and Bellatrix AWOL as usual, the planning of the funeral had been left to his father, who stoically, emotionlessly sat with the most expensive undertakers and florists in the wizarding world, picking out the smartest, most sophisticated functions. Only the best for their little dead princess.

And Draco, as usual, was left to try and comfort his mother. How does a fifteen year old do that? Especially when he had been due to go back to school in the September time; and with Umbridge gone and this petrifying, dark task looming over their heads from The Dark Lord. How was he supposed to assure his mother that things were going to be okay, that she was going to recover from losing one of her children, when he wasn't even sure that he was going to live another year?

It was only when he sharply hissed in a rattily breath that he realised he had been speaking out loud, all his thought processes, for the very first time, somehow finally managing to formulate into coherent sentences without him even knowing. By the end of it, he could hardly even tell he was looking at Hermione Granger. Something like this would normally draw an extremely soppy response from her; his schemata of her was confused because Hermione Granger would have been crying at him by now, looking at him with big, glassy eyes and that disgustingly pitying expression that came over her features when Potter was whining and bitching about his oh so difficult life.

But there was very little emotion in her face as he watched her take it all in, scribble the odd note on her paper before listening some more to the way he described the tiny coffin being lowered into the ground, compared his family to the Muggle Royals in the way that none of them showed even the slightest hint of sadness. Simply formality and strength. They were the Malfoys, and they would adapt.

Come the end of his little outburst, he was surprisingly drained; exhausted, feeling like he needed to sleep for days on end. And there was this niggling anger there now, a fury that had been buried since he was fifteen, brought to the surface by Granger and her stupid creepy ability to make him talk all of a sudden, like he hadn't been determinedly locking it all in the back of his mind for eight years.

He didn't feel better for it, not just yet; but there was this little sensation as well, below the layer of rage; a sort of juxtaposing peace not quite alive enough yet to properly set him in recovery. But it assured him that this had not been completely useless like the other sessions he had been forced into over the years. This was progress in its very concentrated form, a promise that things were still shit, but would not be so forever.

"You want to know my assessment," she spoke eventually after he had been looking at her for over two minutes, watching the cogs of her brain working as she used her knowledge, and what she had just discovered, to come to some no doubt biting conclusions that would include putting him on some ludicrous muggle mood enhancing drug. He nodded once.

"I'm a little concerned to say the least," she said and he scoffed, smirking bitterly and shaking his head, dropping it a little, finally breaking the eye contact "that you said all that in a calm manner. That normally suggests that the moment you leave this office you'll lose that cool and thus, your already potentially dangerous temper," she began slowly, but with a clear respect in her voice; this was going to be void of lies and deception, he could already tell. He felt begrudging gratitude then, it was more than he had been granted by his other healers over the years, the simple honesty of 'you're fucking crazy because your baby sister died when you were a kid, your dead father was an abusive asshole, your mother is a recovering alcoholic and you failed at killing your headmaster and lived in a house with a bunch of other crazy people torturing not only each other, but innocent helpless muggles and muggleborns for an entire year and a half as well'. He supposed that would be the majority of her assessment anyway, but it was Granger after all, she would have her own way of explaining it.

"Don't tell me that you're not going to go home after this and drink lots of wine to distract yourself from cutting tonight," he remarked with a tired sigh, quirking one eyebrow. She swallowed, rolled her tongue around her mouth, and shrugged, nodding once.

"Most likely," she accepted "but in case you had forgotten, I am assessing _you_, not me. Your PTSD wasn't treated properly when you were seeing your last therapist, the symptoms are resurfacing and I'm seeing signs of an eating disorder coming on," she noted, pointing at his thinner wrists and gaunt cheekbones. He was surprised that she'd noticed that, his mother hadn't. But then he didn't live with her twenty four seven anymore; he was in charge of his own meals now, which meant that the majority of the time he had little or no appetite and simply didn't care about food. He knew what that meant though, that she had picked up on it; it meant he would need to be professionally weighed and put on a specific schedule by a dietician. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Good news is, you're not a narcissistic bastard anymore," she smiled genuinely this time, and the amusement was not lost on him "you don't seem to need constant praise, you don't appear to still believe in this inferiority nonsense anymore, and I spoke to your mother beforehand, she claims that you are able to empathise with others much more now," she informed him "you're just a cocky prick," she added, quirking it into a smirk this time for good measure. He didn't hide his own returning smirk, and didn't even bother correcting her.

"What's the verdict then Granger?" he asked, distracted a little now by the thought of a good couple of hours in his gym room, and then a really long sleep in his bed. Insomnia or not, he doubted he would have trouble dropping off tonight; his eyes were already scratchy.

"Malfoy," she sighed, rolling her eyes "you're overestimating the effect of an hour, this is the first session that you've actually talked to me about anything other than… well, snide comments about your sex life, and my lack thereof. Your mother has paid me for a year of sessions, and I still think we will need about half of them to even touch on a quarter of your psychological issues," she said seriously now, sitting forward slightly though keeping her straight posture "but I am going to prescribe a clear treatment plan," she got to her point, and he felt relief wash over him. The faster they set the ball rolling in motion, the faster he could satisfy his fussy mother, and move the fuck on with his life.

"What would you say is the best for me then Granger?" he asked, mirroring her serious demeanour; if anything, he needed to be grown up about this, he was twenty two years old after all, it was silly for him to keep sulking like a child every time someone tried to help him, not matter how pointless their efforts probably were.

"It can't be fixed in one session, that's for sure. I'd say a process of cognitive behavioural therapy. We'll deal with your faulty thinking first, get to the route of your anger; it's obviously going to be a number of things, some of which I have no doubt you'll be difficult and rather viscous and guarded with. But after today, I have hope that we will get there, eventually. I'm going to put you on a low dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion for your nightmares, but if I find out that you're taking more than two drops every two nights, I'll take you off it straight away and we'll find another way to deal with it.

I don't think I need to put you on any SSRIs, you're not depressed and as far as I can tell you don't have any immediate specific phobias; I think more than anything you're angry, so I'm going to put you on Desoxyn and Adderall, but those will be low dosage too, you have a fiery personality-"

"You know it Granger," he couldn't help it, winking at her. She rolled her eyes again and carried on.

"Which is also a characteristic of an addictive personality, so I'm not pushing you too far too fast. We'll see how this goes," she stopped, looked at him for a moment, before carrying on in a slower voice "what are your triggers?" she asked. He tensed his jaw and gritted his teeth for a second.

"I presume you mean the panic attacks?" he replied stonily. She nodded.

"Yes, it's a natural thing when you have PTSD, I want to know if it's severe," she confirmed. He huffed, rubbing his itchy eyes with the balls of his palms and swallowing tightly.

"I'm not sure," he explained in a strained tone, feeling uncomfortable again "it only happens once every couple of weeks or so. Mostly I'm triggered by loud noises. Not shouting, just… bangs, crashes," he attempted to keep talking even though he wanted to storm out of the office door and never come back.

"Do you experience flashbacks when these panic attacks occur?" she inquired again in a concerned voice. The last thing he needed was her fucking pity.

"No," he said "it's more like I'm drowning and I can't suck in the air because I'm-" he broke off for a second, sitting up straighter to try and maintain some dignity, hardening his eyes and tensing his jaw "because I'm scared I'm going to smell smoke and blood and burning corpses," he spoke bluntly, Granger's eyes widening a fraction, before she composed herself again and nodded seriously.

"Well I don't think it's severe enough of a case to prescribe paroxetine or amitriptyline, and I've already said anti-depressants are my last resort, but I'll add in some stress inoculation training to help with those panic attacks. I'm also, as you probably already guessed, referring you to my friend Lexi. She's a fantastic dietician and she'll kick your ass back into gear with a decent nutrition regimen whilst we deal with the underlining causes of your lack of appetite," she finished, ripping off her notes and handing them to him. He stared at them incredulously for a moment before cautiously taking them off her and looking at her like she had just jumped up on her chair and started singing a Warbeck song.

"You're not supposed to give these to me," he said "they're your professional evaluations"

"You know what the best thing about being a wizarding psychiatrist is Malfoy?" she smiled almost mischievously. He frowned.

"No, but I suppose you're going to tell me anyway"

"It's the smallest field of healthcare in the wizarding system; there are barely any guidelines. You are a slightly significant case Malfoy," she swallowed again, that professionalism cracking a little for another millisecond before she continued "you know me personally, and I know you. We have a history, and we're both famous. I probably shouldn't even be treating you at all. But we've been sitting here once a week for two months now and you've just proved that if you're not so much of an asshole, and I can keep a lid on my own issues, we can come to a level of understanding. I don't have to pretend to like you, but I have a duty of care," she wet her lips again "and you are my patient, which means I'll get you in recovery whether you fucking enjoy it or not"

And that was the end of that conversation.

* * *

"Did you love your father?" she asked, twirling that damn pen between her fingers again. They weren't as clean cut as they had been last time, she'd bitten them down, and the dark lines under her annoyingly big brown eyes were more prominent than usual, although not by too much; the differences in her were very subtle, very well hidden under her usual calm demeanour.

She was wearing black stilettos today, shiny leather, five inches, the heel well made; obviously expensive. She wore loose fabric shorts, high wasted, tighter around her middle than on her thighs and of course, the desired effect was longer legs. On the top half of her body was a light pink blazer to match the barely there pink of her shorts, and a black vest underneath, her hair down and crazily curly as usual.

He had to admit, her style had improved over the past four years; his mother always briefly mentioned the press pictures in the paper featuring Granger and this week's outfits. The golden trio never did photo shoots for anyone though, apart from Weasley of course, who revelled in his newfound fame and wealth; the last Draco had heard, the bastard was in Tahiti or somewhere exotic and rarely contacted anyone across the English border.

"Did _you_ love _your_ father?" he sighed, dropping his head back against the armchair he always sat in opposite her, exposing his neck and resting the crick he had in it from last night's sleep on the sofa. He hadn't meant to end up there, he'd just had a really fucking long day at work, and he'd ended up sort of collapsing there after blindly taking his dose of dreamless sleep potion that she was still restricting his allowance of.

"Yes," she replied simply "I love my father. But that's different, he's tactful and supportive and caring; he doesn't have the same… mind-set, as your father did," she spoke, nibbling on her lip in thought again. The bottom one was chapped and there were a few redder parts where she had obviously worried it so hard, that it had bled.

He wondered if she was being treated, for her own issues that was. She'd told him she was in remission, from a self-harming habit. When she was scribbling notes sometimes, he used the opportunity to glance at the creamy skin of her wrist, and the thin red lines, jagged in parts, but neat in others, only going halfway up her forearm. He supposed that she left them on show to make sure people knew that there were no fresh ones, that she was stronger now, that she'd beaten it. Although, from the other tells on her body, he doubted that she was suddenly healthy and fixed, like she wanted him to be, eventually. But he knew her situation; miscarriage wasn't something that you just recovered from.

"If you're asking me if I cared about my father then you're stupid Granger," he said, jaw tight, eye contact holding again. She raised her eyebrows as he continued "I wouldn't have fucked up so astronomically if I didn't love him," he said solidly. She stared at him again for a moment, the way she always did when she was processing something he'd revealed, before nodding, making a quick note on her paper as always, and turning her immediate and full attention back to him.

"Was there ever a time, towards the end of the war, that you think maybe you didn't love him anymore?" she inquired into further detail. He clenched and unclenched his hands, swallowed, and drew in a discreet breath. He absolutely hated talking about his father; love or not, the evil bastard had treated him very cruelly from the moment he was born. He had always either completely ignored Draco, or pushed him harder; nothing had ever quite been good enough for Lucius Malfoy.

He cursed himself again when he realised he had said that out loud as well. These sessions were so intrusive, and sometimes Granger could be a brutal bitch. Not as in the 'bad cop' type brutal, in the sense of blunt questions and relentless poking at his brain, the inner workings. He despised it. He just didn't talk about the way he felt, it was not the way he'd been brought up. It was a simple process; if it wasn't verbalised then it couldn't ruin anything, and feelings away from pride and duty weren't important. When you were serving under Lucius Malfoy, or The Dark Lord; you were a soldier, nothing else. That had been Draco's problem, he had always loved that little bit too much to be a Death Eater; a true warrior. Always been just a little too weak, and a little too cowardly.

His inability to express himself wasn't his mother's doing as much as his father's. Narcissa had always been a proud woman of course, having been brought up in the life; an elegant, clever Black sister with a quick mouth and the natural instinct to make the best out of any situation she was placed in. And she had done her best with his father, always been there to stand at his side, taken whatever had come to them, calmed him when very few others could. But her maternal instinct outweighed that of her adapting one; and once she had brought Draco into the world, that was her main priority and motivation, always had been and always would be. If it hadn't, Draco doubted he would have survived past his fifth birthday, and his father would probably have been the one to kill him.

Yet Draco loved his father. Looked up to him, taken his shit, the beatings, the lectures, the propaganda and the fear and the values. Aristocracy and supreme purity; cleanliness and propriety. A real asset to the bloodline, or you didn't deserve to live. All that had seemed so important, so valid and exciting; what could ever go wrong from the best of the best having power over the dregs of society, the ones bringing the rest of them down slowly, the good-for-nothing muggles and mudbloods – he realised that he was talking out loud again because Granger's breath hitched and her left hand went to her right arm where he knew the word was still scarred into the skin.

"The basic point is Granger," he said, pissed off with himself for letting his guard down like this again "my father was a bigoted, racist, derogatory asshole, and so was I; yet, for some unfathomable, ridiculous reason, to answer your previous, idiotic question, I loved him," he spat, glaring at her and running one hand through his hair "but I hated him more"

There was a bout of silence again.

She looked at him this time, without writing anything down or biting her lip or crossing and uncrossing her legs. She just looked at him, and he looked back at her. Then she closed her mouth, breathed in deeply, and nodded.

"And you've built your entire identity off of him for years, am I right?" she asked. He scoffed bitterly, shaking his head.

"You spent seven fucking years of our child in the same place as me, but you don't know me at all," he said, meeting her gaze head on again for a couple of seconds before adjusting himself on the chair. There was a longer pause this time as she waited for him to go on speaking, before he let out a heavy sigh; more of a hiss than anything.

"I knew who I was Granger," he told her "I knew where my opinions and loyalties lied. But I also knew that I didn't want to hurt anyone, not physically anyway, not maliciously. Not in the way my father would hurt me. But then you know don't you," he challenged "you know that in my world it's not about what you _want_; it's about what _needs_ to happen, for the greater good. Family values. _Your_ loyalty was to what was right, your friends. Mine was to my family, my Mother and my Father. In the end I didn't even give a shit about what happened to anyone else; it was all about keeping them safe, doing what needed to be done in order to save them, as I know they would have done for me, as I know that they were already doing for me," he broke off for a moment, swallowing again and sitting back "my father might have been a bastard, but my Mother didn't deserve any of it, all she'd ever done was protect me as much as she could. I wasn't about to let her down"

"Except you did, didn't you?" she said, tapping her pen against the clipboard now "you didn't do what you were supposed to do; your conscience got the better of you and you failed"

He was getting angrier now, feeling that switch inside of him activating his aggression. How dare she. She knew nothing about it, the helplessness of it, the feeling of being stuck between two shit places and no one in between them with you. If he'd gone to the Order, there would be no guarantee he would be able to get his Mother out of the Manor as well; and those righteous bastards weren't always as forgiving as people went on about. They may even have killed him on the spot.

Yet once Dumbledore was dead, Voldemort would know that it wasn't Draco who had done it; he had disobeyed, although the ultimate goal had been achieved, he hadn't gone through with it. The Dark Lord would either kill him, or subject him to a lifetime of punishment, torture. Complete and utter fucking helplessness in all directions. And people were poking and prodding at him from all of them, telling him what to do, what was right, what he should believe, who he should kill.

All this bullshit about him being the boy who made all the wrong choices for all the right reasons.

Draco knew better. He'd been the boy without any choices, doomed to die or suffer no matter how he fucked up. It had been sheer dumb fucking luck that king freaking Potter had swooped in – rather literally in his case – and saved the day.

And once again, he was talking out loud and Granger wasn't writing anything down, she was just watching him. He wasn't even sure if she was listening to what he was saying, but it got to the point where he was starting to lose a grip on his temper, and she stopped him suddenly, mid rant. A small, gentle hand, slightly cold, landing on his arm just below where he had rolled his sleeve up to, looking him directly in the eyes and smiling softly.

"I forgive you," she said, her eyes void of anger and hate, full instead of understanding and – yes, definitely forgiveness "I don't like you," she said "and I won't forget it any time soon. But, I do forgive you"

And that was the end of that conversation.

* * *

"Mr Malfoy?" he looked up when Adriana, his personal assistant, poked her head around the door "there's a Miss Granger to see you"

"Let her in," he frowned, putting his quill back in the ink pot and sitting back in his chair, raising an eyebrow at Granger in question when she entered the room and closed the door behind her. She was wearing skinny blue jeans with brown leather flat boots, and a knitted cardigan with cut off arms today, a dark blue vest underneath with her hair twisted up at the back of her head, as always, a few curls falling to frame her face.

"To what do I owe the displeasure?" he teased, gesturing for her to sit in the seat opposite him. She rolled her eyes and took it, looking a little uneasy and very, very tired.

"I wanted to tell you in person that our Friday session is cancelled; I have to go to Australia"

He didn't need to ask her why she was going there, he wasn't stupid; it had been in the newspapers. The untimely death of her parents. Ironically, although completely uncomedically, they had passed away as the result of a gas explosion – yes, he knew what a gas explosion was, he did live in a muggle apartment block; he owned a gas cooker.

"I assumed that was the case anyway," he nodded once, not looking at her with the slightest hint of sympathy. He wasn't heartless of course, he just knew how irritating it was when people looked at you with that horrible wet expression, and patted your damn arm, apologising for something they had never had a part in. Death made people fucking annoying.

"Your Mother knows, I've told her not to pay me for that hour. I just felt like I should come down and tell you, a note felt like I was palming you off and not doing my job," she said, moving to stand up again.

"Wait a second Granger, don't be stupid, that can't literally be the only thing you came here for, that's ridiculous, sit back down," he sighed, nodding towards the chair again. He'd grown accustomed to dealing with her presence, and even though he still didn't get along with her all the time – he still held the opinion that it was unprofessional for her to be treating him considering that they spent at least twenty minutes of their sessions arguing – he knew when she wasn't dealing with things outside of work. It wouldn't be Granger if she didn't bring a couple of her issues to the room with her; she was good at her job, she just wasn't particularly good at looking after herself.

"I have a lot of things to sort out Malfoy and not a lot of time, I need to go," she said blankly, still going to leave.

"If you don't sit your perky little ass down on that chair I'm going to call Potter over, his office is just across the hall and I'll tell him what he's too dense to notice on his own," he snapped, looking her straight in the eyes like she was always saying was a habit of his. He couldn't help it, he had spent too long in a house where he had to avoid eye contact with almost everyone to avoid being slapped or tortured; and his old enemies were safe, they allowed him his weekly quota of healthy competition – it allowed him to, in Granger's words 'feel in control and intimidating or challenging'.

"Excuse me?" she hissed, "_what_ hasn't he noticed?"

"That you're not coping at the moment; which is normal. That is what you're always telling me, right? That it's normal to find it difficult to cope when Chronic Stress kicks in and our life changes get too much. That whole Social Readjustment Rating Scale crap?" he answered, watching her with interest. She really was very annoying when she was being persistent. He was trying to help her dammit, why was she being so difficult? Yeah, so he was trying to help Hermione Granger, fucking shoot him; it was self-preservation. As much as he hated to admit it, they actually were making progress in his sessions on a Friday, and if she wasn't doing very well in her own life, then he doubted they would do very well trying to get anywhere with his own mental state during their time together, which was after all what his Mother paid her for, helping him to get better.

"I'm fine," she glared at him, narrowing her eyes "and my personal life has nothing to do with you, _you _are _my_ patient, not the other way around. I'll see you next Friday," she was losing her temper, and so was he. He didn't appreciate her pissy tone even though he was thinking that it would probably do her some good to get a little angry; knowing Granger she was trying to keep it all under wraps so no one worried about her. Silly girl. Anger, he had come to learn, could be healthy. It was a human emotion after all, and if had to be let out now and again. And ten times out of ten, it was accompanied by other repressed shit and pain as well, and had a knock on effect so that you could feel those things too.

It sucked that rage was a basic instinct, that sadness and agony had to be felt; but that was essential, they really did need to be rode out. Something else he was learning through Granger's sessions was that it had to be expressed and dealt with, or it would fester and boil, and it would lash out at the people closest and dearest. Fuck, he'd forgotten how hypocritical Granger could be; forgetting a lot of the time to practice the bullshit she was trying to teach.

He stood up and just managed to get to the door before she reached it, putting a hand on it so she couldn't open it.

"Granger if you're going to be a little bitch and refuse to talk to me, then at least talk to Potter or George, you're friendly with that bastard, right? Either way," he said as firmly as he could, trying not to lose his shit with her "I want to know that you're going to be fit to carry on treating me next week. If not, I'll talk to my Mother about getting a new therapist"

She glared at him with hate in her expression for a few more moments before she dropped the eye contact, took in a deep breath, and nodded once, seemingly understanding his method of self-preservation. He took his arm away from the door and she pulled it open with surprising vulnerability, and gently pushed past him to leave.

He decided to go and see Potter later anyway; he knew what Granger was like when she was left to stew in her own destructive thought processes.

And if he was being honest with himself, he really didn't want to see fresh cuts on her arm when he got back into her office the following week.

* * *

"Oh dear, I'm sorry- Miss Granger," Narcissa straightened a little when she realised that the person she had accidentally bumped into was Hermione, blinking a couple of times before recovering and plastering her usual polite smile on her slightly thinner, older lips.

"Not a problem Ms Malfoy," Hermione nodded back, swallowing and moving to carry on walking, resisting the urge to growl when long, surprisingly strong fingers closed around her elbow and pulled her back softly, a new look on Narcissa's normally proud and neutral features.

"Draco tells me very little about your sessions," she began carefully "but he looks to be much improved by his time with you, I trust I am placing my money in a good cause," she talked as she always did, with her chin up, her piercing green eyes not necessarily harsh, but definitely undeniably intelligent, wise, and now Hermione was really looking, kind, deep down.

She found herself smiling smally without really meaning to.

"It's a slow process, but we're getting there. He seems to really want to try this time around," Hermione replied, uncomfortable and tired. She was having a lot of trouble keeping up conversations of late; she managed to do okay at work, it was all professional, mandatory, like a different part of her mind worked whilst the rest of it switched off. Except for when she was treating Malfoy.

That was different for some reason. But then, she had known that from the beginning, it had been why she'd had so many reservations about taking him on; the whole point of recovery was to move on from the past and be excited about the future, Malfoy represented a lot of things that had gone wrong with her childhood, the person she used to be. There was a lot of negativity there. To start with, it was all she'd been able to see when she looked at him; her insecurities, that frumpy skirt, frizzy hair and big toothed little girl desperate to win the approval of everyone, desperate to be noticed and praised and respected.

And Malfoy, the kid who seemingly had everything, the friends, the admiration, the money, the intelligence. And he had bullied her ruthlessly; if she had a galleon for every time she had fallen asleep sobbing helplessly into her pillow because his words haunted her into the night… well, she'd be richer than she was now, which would be quite the achievement because the ministry had gone a little overboard with reparations and compensation after the war.

But as she had managed to get him to talk, and diagnosed him, she had begun to understand him. And something her mother – god she hated thinking about her parents right now – had always taught her, was that when you understood something, it was next to impossible to hate it. And she didn't hate him. She would be incredibly unprofessional and bad at her job if she did.

And she got the distinct impression that he didn't hate her either. He had tried to get her to talk the other day, before her parent's funeral, he had attempted to get her to vent; and she'd been tempted to really, Malfoy still had the unnerving ability to make her want to punch him repeatedly in the face.

Bloody hell she was angry. It was like the moment she left her office, she wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, break things, hurt someone, make someone suffer, to blame someone. But she couldn't, sometimes people just fucking died and it was horrible because after the war, she truly thought that she had dealt with enough of that to last her a lifetime. Apparently, the universe just hated her and wanted to test her fucking patience.

She honestly did not know how she had got through the last couple of weeks without cutting or attempting to commit again. It was like this tap existed in her brain and she turned it off the second she stepped over that professional barrier.

And then she would go home and sit awake for as long as she possibly could, until she was too exhausted to dream or have nightmares; forced insomnia combined with a large bottle of red wine and the fire up full blast was her coping technique. It distracted her for a while, helped her to slowly slip out of her mind just for a little while. She didn't even know how she was keeping her licence to treat her patients at the moment because she hadn't turned up for her _own _therapy sessions in about a month and a half and no one had bugged her about it, no one had questioned her about it. She figured they didn't want to push her over the edge. She just couldn't talk about it right now, none of it.

* * *

She sniffled and curled up closer to her own body, shovelling herself back further into the burgundy fabric of her sofa, clutching the wine glass in her right hand, the other arm wrapped tightly around her stomach. Oh yeah. That tick was back. She tended to do it without realising it, feeling that gut wrenching need to close that part of her body off to everything.

2am. Where was she supposed to begin? She was gulping back the despair threatening to choke her again, the tears falling slowly and silently. Now and again she found herself singing a quiet lullaby, the same one she had heard so much as a child, that soft voice humming in her ear, stroking her crazy hair and pressing gentle kisses to her forehead as she fell asleep. She felt it in her very bones and it ached all the time; she felt nauseous constantly, broken.

So. Fucking. Lonely.

* * *

She breathed out a deep sigh, her body deflating with it. She just couldn't be bothered to sit properly anymore; she needed to be caged, just for now. So she had taken off her shoes, pulled her legs up on her chair and was currently nibbling on her lip listening to Malfoy talking opposite her, just… watching.

He'd grown up of course, his jaw was a little less pointy, though not by much, and his cheekbones were as defined as ever, but his face had filled out and he was so much more… comfortable in his pale skin. His hair was messy at the moment, his fingers tapping irritably on his knee, his legs open, back slightly slumped, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, suit trousers a little creased from the day's work. He was alright at the moment, she didn't need to intervene. When he was truly angry, he got a faint tinge of red in his cheeks and his hands started ruffling his hair and he ended up crouched up on the chair, muscles clenched, breathing laboured, muggle lamp on her desk emitting sparks, the lights on the ceiling flickering.

Right now he was just tired and worked up and probably feeling a little fed up. She knew how busy his job got sometimes, and Harry hadn't answered her phone call earlier, so she guessed that it had been a bit of a crazy day in the Auror department. Harry had insisted that he come over and sit with her tonight though, so she wasn't going to be allowed to wallow in her self-pity.

"Granger?" he asked after a bit of a pause when he realised that he'd been venting for quite a long time and she hadn't said anything "can I suggest something?"

She frowned blankly, lapsing her teeth in their assault on her bottom lip, licking over it slightly to soothe it. She drew in a short breath, swallowed, and nodded once, gesturing for him to go ahead and talk.

"I'm very… you know, glad, that these sessions are working-" she couldn't help smirking as it looked as though it physically pained him to say those words out loud "but you look like shit right now, and you might benefit from having a reverse session next week; you know, _I_ sit here and pretend to listen to _you_ whine about how difficult _your _life is, all that jazz"

She struggled to resist slapping him hard across the face at that moment. She wasn't letting her personal issues affect her work; that was her main goal from the moment they had called her to tell her that both her parents were crispy corpses on a silver table in an Australian morgue. His suggestion that she be the one needing his council just sounded as if he was implying that she was failing to do that, to get her job done with little interference from her own bout of crippling depression. She swallowed and forced her hand to remain rested on her clipboard so it didn't slip over under the long sleeve on her right arm to try and cover up the latest damage. Now _that _had been a low moment. It was last week, she'd been exhausted and lost and she'd blacked out and found herself in a mass of her own broken belongings, blood on her hands from where she had punched through wood, and dust in her hair and in her mouth from the rubble of her own magic.

The crimson liquid on her skin had brought about this horrible, begging peace in the back of her mind that she tried so desperately to bury. It wasn't one of her worst cuts, but she couldn't tell anyone without being thrown back in the loony bin, they just wouldn't understand; she had relapsed a lot more in the past. This was just a baby cut, and although it was quite deep, once the dopamine rush had worn off, she'd been roughly pulled back to her senses, and in a rush to heal it, had only made it worse. Eventually, she'd bandaged her wrist as best she could and ever since then she'd not been able to look at it, simply wearing long sleeves all the time, blaming her attire on the cold weather.

But now Malfoy had his eyebrows raised at her like he knew exactly what she was trying to hide, and she wanted to knock the expression right off his face. Instead, she drew in a deep breath as discreetly as she could and smiled, the muscles on her face actually hurting from the effort it took.

"I'm fine," she lied easily "there's no need. You are making good progress though-" she broke off to clear her throat a little "I'm going to take the Desoxyn out of your prescription, but I want to you take the Adderall for as long as I think you need to. We're ready to start your final stages of stress inoculation therapy soon, but even when you do, I still want our sessions to happen and I'll be on call at all times; I trust you have a mobile phone?" she asked, successfully dodging the subject of her own state of mind. That was not after all, what they were here to discuss.

"Yes," he sighed, slipping his IPhone out of his trouser pocket and throwing it at her. She caught it with surprising skill and typed her number in rather fast, saving it to his contacts and chucking it back at him, smirking ever so slightly when he caught it above his head – once a seeker, always a seeker.

"Is there anything else you want to talk about today?" she asked, noting down her evaluation for the week. He frowned ever so slightly, swallowing to wet his throat and sitting up a little straighter, supporting his chin with his hand, elbow resting on the arm of his chair.

"I won't insult your intelligence-"

"Well that's a first"

"Granger just let me talk a second will you? I won't insult your intelligence by suggesting that you're still assuming I'm a bratty little racist, but I don't think you quite understand that when I suggest we do a reverse session, I'm trying to help you"

Her eyes widened ever so slightly and she stared at him for a good ten seconds before seemingly processing what he'd said. It was as though she suddenly let a small part of her heavy defence slip and her shoulders slumped a little as she let out a soft breath of exhaustion and slight defeat. She swallowed, attached her pen to the top of her clipboard, and put it down gently on the desk beside her.

"You are my patient Draco," she said in a low, tired, croaky voice "I have a duty of care, allowing you to treat me would be a violation of that-"

"Oh bullshit to guidelines Granger," he countered, rolling his eyes and sitting forward now, taking on a more assertive pose "the very fact that you agreed to treat me in the first place is a violation of your 'duty of care'. From the beginning we both knew this was either going to be an astronomical fuck up, or it was going to be the making of me. So far, so good. Now we both know I'm not your biggest fan, and you're by no means mine, I get that; but for some annoyingly infuriating reason, you seem to be able to get through to me, and I'm not taking that lightly; I'm capable of acknowledging when someone's helped me. All I want to do here, is make sure that you're not about to go crazy on me. I want to know – merlin help me – that you're okay. So if you're not okay, you know you can take me up on this offer and – fuck this is weird – you can take me up on this offer and if you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask," he said neutrally "and I'll see what I can do"

She looked at him unsurely for a while again, before she wrapped her arms around her legs, hugging them to her body and nibbling on her bottom lip, nodding once.

"Thank you," she said, closing her eyes for a moment, opening them a second later "it's not necessary," she half-smiled very weakly, looking very small and pale all of a sudden, the freckles on her face more prominent, the dark shadows under her eyes visible more to him now than they had ever been "but thank you."

And that was the end of that conversation.

* * *

"Hello?" he squinted through one eye, half sat up, trying to gain some sight through the darkness of his bedroom as he pressed his phone to his ear and frowned, trying to connect his motor senses to his brain.

"I'm scared," a small voice he vaguely recognised croaked down the line at him and he immediately sat up properly, the cover pooling at his bare waist as he took a couple more seconds to take in what was going on.

"Wait a moment, what are you scared of?" he managed to half-talk, half-breathe in reply; his throat was all cloggy and his tongue was sleep drunk as he brought a hand up to run instinctively through his bed hair.

"Myself," the voice replied and his eyes shot open properly, his chest contracting a little as he felt his stomach drop in almost immediate panic. It was Granger. Granger was calling him at three in the morning and she was scared of herself and probably crying and Merlin why the hell was that so terrifying to him? Oh yeah, because when she said she was scared of herself, it probably meant she was scared of relapsing and that couldn't happen, it just couldn't.

"Granger where are you?" he asked, swallowing tightly as he reached for his wand under his pillow and lit up the tip so his room was illuminated by a small amount of light. He pulled his legs out from under the duvet and moved so he was sat on the edge of the bed, back hunched slightly.

"At my apartment," she coughed – yep, definitely crying – and sniffed a little "in the living room," she added, her voice shaking. He didn't have time to dwell on the fact that hearing her like this was hurting something beneath his ribcage, and that it rose a rather embarrassing lump in his own throat; if she killed herself tonight, he wouldn't have a psychiatrist anymore, and yes he was making progress, but he still wasn't good at dealing with his emotions completely by himself. He needed Granger.

"Don't move," he said shortly, hand bunching in the hair at the back of his head "I'll be there in ten minutes. I mean it Granger," he spoke firmly "don't fucking move"

And that was the end of that conversation.

* * *

"Hey- hey Granger calm the fuck down a second would you?" Malfoy took her by the shoulders, dodging her arm as she moved to stand up and he gently pushed her back into her seat, the blanket still covering her legs, keeping her warm "I know, okay?" he sighed, looking her in the eye as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear, tears streaming terribly down her messy face, the corner of his mouth quirking as he softly kept her tearful gaze, her bottom lip quivering in an effort not to burst into sobs "but you made it through the day, you're still alive" he half-smiled now, knocking her nose almost affectionately with his knuckle "you're doing a damn good job of it," he carried on, resisting the urge to roll his eyes when she started nibbling on her bottom lip. He took her wrist, stilling the fingers going to scratch under the sleeve of her other arm, pushing up slightly from his crouching position in front of her and pressing a kiss to her forehead, his hands cradling her head either side firmly. He broke away and winked at her airily as he settled back, keeping one hand on the right side of her neck over her messy hair "and I'm bloody proud of you, okay?" He whispered "I'm proud of you."

There was a stretch of time then, without any words, without any input really needed on Draco's part as she struggled to get her crying under control. He sighed and took her face in his hands again, pressing their foreheads together so she had something solid to focus on, human contact, another breath against her skin. When he was convinced she'd successfully regained some form of composure, he let go of her, slowly and carefully pulling up the sleeves of her thermal top, being careful not to let out a breath or flinch at the jolt of emotion in his body, choking him slightly. It wasn't a severe relapse, two cuts on both arms, nowhere near the vein. It was deep though, bleeding slightly still, dried in places, smeared in others. He swallowed tightly and took a firmer hold when she tried to pull them away with a small whimper. He drew in a deep, steadying breath and took out his wand, going to clean it up with magic. She knocked her head against his again however, shaking her head when he looked up.

"No magic," she breathed, eyes closed a little, not making eye contact, nothing but fear and shame in her expression. He swallowed again and nodded.

"Stay here Granger," he instructed clearly, not paying any attention to her blood on his hands. Merlin that should disgust him – an old whisper in the back of his mind told him he should be using this against her, identifying her as the enemy. But they weren't at war anymore and his father was dead and so were her parents and she had lost a fucking child two years ago for fuck sake. So no, he wasn't going to just sneer at her and call her weak because he'd been in her position, lost in a darkness she'd worked so hard at repressing. Maybe that reverse session was needed after all. But he wasn't going to tell Potter, not unless she wanted him to. Patient confidentiality and all that.

He settled her bloody arms on her knees in front of her, and stood up to full height, going to what he assumed would be her kitchen desperately fumbling to find bandages and tissues and a bowl. He found a first aid kit – yes, he knew what a damn first aid kit was, he wasn't completely clueless when it came to muggle contraptions – and it had pretty much everything he needed. He filled a bowl up with warm water, levitating it as he carried the kit with him in one hand, a half full bottle of red wine in the other. She'd need something to distract her whilst he cleaned her up and somehow he didn't think a book would do the trick in this situation.

He was trying not to focus too much on the red smudges on his palms and fingers as he sat on the coffee table this time, pulling it in closer to her and settling the bowl down beside him, dipping some cotton wool in it and placing the wine in her lap, feeling a small flicker of dark humour at her tiny broken chuckle. He began dabbing at the cuts, the bleeding having stemmed now, being as gentle as he could, but not being ridiculously careful. Pussy footing around her too much at the moment would make her feel even worse. He cleaned the blood off in silence, listening to the occasional swig of wine she took and the way her breathing was gradually slowing back down to normal. He couldn't feel her eyes on him and she was hardly moving so he supposed she was staring ahead of her or something. That was okay, whatever she needed to do.

When he'd sufficiently managed to get her skin back to its normal colour around the damage, he began cleaning the cuts with anti-septic wipes, tutting at her small hisses and flinches as it stung. She needed normality, and although this was an abnormal situation, she needed to feel like she wasn't being treated by a complete stranger. Once he was done with that, he left the cotton balls and wipes in the water, ignoring the red mixing with it, and taking out the bandages, going as slow as he could so as not to alarm her. He wrapped both arms, feeling her skin slowly warming up – he'd put the heating on when he had first come in and found her – and her fingers gently twitching now and again. He wrapped them as tight as he could without stopping the circulation and spelled the blood off her sleeves, pulling them back down over the white fabric and vanishing everything in the bowl, zipping the first aid kit again and leaving it beside him, finally turning to look at her properly.

She was still pale, but a small amount of colour had returned to her cheeks and she wiped the tears from them, breathing a few times again before she closed and opened her eyes, meeting his gaze with such a drained expression that he remembered it was probably about five in the morning, and he was actually quite tired, but also ridiculously awake. He doubted he'd be able to go back to sleep after this. He wondered whether it was a good thing that it was Saturday and he didn't have to go into work.

"Don't tell Harry," were the first words that slipped from her sore, chapped lips, and there was a sudden ferocity there now, a harshness that wasn't really directed particularly at him, but more at herself.

"Granger what do you take me for?" he replied, slightly offended "you think I want Potter hounding me with questions about this? No thanks. And anyway, this isn't the type of thing I'd tell anyone else about, not unless you told me you wanted me to," he spoke more clearly now, wondering if she'd ever actually had anyone come and clean her up like this.

"Why not?" she half-snapped and he could tell she was scared now, that he was going to use this to ruin her even further. He sighed and slumped his shoulders, resting his hands in his lap and shrugging.

"I'd have thought that was obvious by now Granger," he said "you're important"

And that was the end of that conversation.

* * *

"Malfoy, I wondered if you'd be okay with us doing our session outside of the office today?" she asked as he entered her office a little apprehensively. They'd talked, since the night she'd cut her arms open and he had cleaned them up for her, but not really face to face, and not for large amounts of time. They'd bickered a little, about her getting help again; but she'd promised him that she didn't need it and that one relapse had been enough to knock her back into recovery mode. He had reluctantly accepted her claims, but had asked her secretary to keep an eye on her and to report back to him, and this was the first session they'd had since that night.

"Only if there's going to be food," he huffed. He was a little moody, he'd spent the day arguing with the department of international law enforcement because one of their abroad prisoners was being transferred and they weren't being very co-operative. Surprisingly Potter had backed him on the majority of his points and eventually, they'd managed to come to an agreement that didn't mean lessened transfer security or chances of another chaotic escape drama, although he'd had to ring ahead and tell Granger he'd be late for their session because he was having to finish the damn paper work. Now, truthfully, he just wanted to sleep, or eat, or the latter; but he also needed to do this week's meeting with her because… well, because of reasons.

She tutted and rolled her eyes with a slight smile as she finished ordering a couple of the files on her desk and pulled her handbag over her shoulder.

"C'mon then," she gestured "we'll get dinner at Martin's so I can sign this week's meds prescription for you"

He followed her out the door, knowing that Martin's restaurant was just down the street and that they happened to do a really nice lasagne and he needed a decent pint of butterbeer after the day he'd had. Granger blathered on about his meds and his mother's concerns and his progress as they walked and her black heels sounded on the concrete alongside him and he decided that when she'd told him that she was doing okay, she actually was. She sounded a bit brighter in herself anyway, and she seemed to have that annoyingly obnoxious optimism back in her step. Wonderful, just fucking delightful. Although, it was better than her laying lifeless in a bed at St Mungos. She was wearing half cut off sleeves today, and the bracelets that she was wearing covered most of the cuts, so he supposed she was feeling braver, if anything.

He ordered easily and practically swallowed the glass with his drink when it was brought to him. Granger actually ate as well, getting a sandwich and a glass of white wine, looking really quite relaxed as she immediately started asking him questions about any incidences of his own slip ups during the week.

He told her about Monday and how he'd nearly hit the guy who had pushed him a little too far when he'd been trying to suss out a homicide, and how Potter had needed to intervene. He told her about Tuesday when he'd spent the afternoon at his mother's helping her decorate her refurbished living room, and had also disgruntledly admitted that it had been cathartic and quite enjoyable. He told her about how his father's deathdate was coming up, and she told him she was increasing his dose of Adderall a little so it was easier for him to keep calm in that little risk period. Then somehow the conversation had switched so she was unknowingly talking about Ron being arrested by Haitian muggle police for being drunk and disorderly – translation, naked and doing the Macarena on the beach. And he had made some off handed remark about his stupidity and although he wouldn't admit it, it was good to see her laugh. And when he thought about it, he had never actually ever seen her laugh properly. It was open and ridiculous and – oh merlin he wasn't going to think up a damn essay on Granger's laugh, it was good, and he was leaving it at that.

Eventually it was starting to get dark outside, so Granger called an end to it and handed his prescription as they exited the restaurant, smirking at his parting remark and walking backwards down the street as he walked away from her still half-shouting about Hagrid and his bloody chicken, laughing a little as she apparated away at the end of the cobbles. It was only when he popped over to the manor to check the wards were still up for his mother and she commented on the smile on his face that he realised something had changed, and he felt a sudden urge at his own frustration when he caught on.

He was friends with Granger.

"Why are you so surprised? She is a very charming young woman-"

"Goodbye mother," he cut her off, ignoring her laughter at his denial as he left for his own apartment.

And that was the end of that conversation.

* * *

The first time it happened they had been arguing. And not like, bickering arguing. Like, yelling arguing. Draco had missed a session and hadn't been taking his meds for two weeks during the anniversary of his father's death and she'd been berating him about it and he'd gotten angry, and she'd gotten angry and he'd brought up the cutting and she'd brought up the overdosing and they'd just sort of ended up screaming at each other and she had gone to slap him and he'd stopped her and then they were just kind of kissing. Okay it was more like they were attacking each other, but it was more productive than hitting one another anyway, especially with Draco's anger issues.

It was just that Granger was kind of annoyingly spectacular when she was angry. Her hair frazzled out, her eyes widened with unshed tears and her cheeks got all hot and bothered and uggh okay it wasn't his fault that he was attracted to her, she was perceptive and clever and intelligence was sexy and she got under his skin. She knew things about him that no one else knew and understood them in ways no one else had ever taken the time to. It was kind of fucked up that he was paying her for it, but whatever, he knew a two way physical attraction when he felt one and – _fuck _– he felt it.

* * *

"Are we going to have a conversation about this?" she asked, sitting back against her chair, tilting her head to the left slightly and pursing her lips. He knew that small little smirk, she was trying not to look like she was happy or excited or mischievous, and failing miserably as usual. He wondered when he had become attracted to that, when those annoying little smiles had become the best part of his day, when her gratingly soft voice had become one of the only things that could cure the fucking ridiculously painful headaches he had by the end of the week. He wondered when he had stopped flinching at her touch and started leaning into it, anything to feel her freckled skin and have it warm and gentle against his own. He wondered when her chapped lips, instead of being a constant source of irritation when he looked at her, had become the lips that occupied his less appropriate dreams. He wondered when Hermione Granger had become his best friend.

He smirked, grinning when a blush gathered along her neck and grew in her gaunt cheekbones and she shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair.

"Well yes, if you want to, although this is supposed to be a session and I'm not paying you overtime," he remarked, imitating her and tilting his head to the side, meeting her eyes and holding the contact. She scoffed, shaking her head.

"_You're_ not even paying me, your mother is," Granger retorted, looking visibly less peaky as she gained some form of composure once more.

"I wasn't under the impression that you wanted to discuss my mother at this moment in time," he replied with a slight grimace. She chuckled, shaking her head again and pulling her feet up underneath her and folding them, resting her hands in her lap. She was wearing a much more casual outfit today; white Aztec leggings with a lightly tie dyed purple baseball smock top. Her leather jacket was hung on the hook on the back of the office door, and her brown lace up boots were on the floor beside the chair she always sat in. Her crazy brunette curls fell to their ridiculously long length just a few inches below where her prominent rib cage stopped and because of the way she was positioned, the tendrils rested on the beginnings of her legs by her hips.

His official observation of her today was that she was tired. Not as exhausted as she usually looked, but somewhere in between her bright and annoying demeanour, and her 'I want to slash my wrists' mood. She seemed simply restless, going for comfortable, minimalist clothing and appearance, and hiding her wrists with a long sleeved thermal she wore beneath the baseball smock. Her breathing was reasonably regular, her blinking slightly off although her eyelids were heavier and the dark lines remained around them, indicating her current insomnia. All in all, it wasn't a bad day that she was having, but it wasn't a good one either, and, as usual, it did unsettle him a little. Although, she didn't seem to want to talk much about their wellbeing, which was really primarily what her job was.

"I don't," she agreed with a small sigh "I want to talk about the fact that we kissed, and how it's absolutely not going to change our professional relationship," she stated, puckering her chin up and straightening her back, taking on a more determined, regal posture. It just made him laugh a little again and he pruned when she looked offended. That little quirk wasn't gone, he still enjoyed annoying the fuck out of Granger, he just happened to like her much more arching into him and moaning his name against his lips.

"Alright Granger," he said, amused "lets hear it"

She glared at him for a few seconds before she swallowed, opened her tired eyes a little more and nodded "this isn't going to be an issue, I'm going to continue treating you and our wall will continue to be firmly in place-"

"Granger, I bandaged your bleeding wrists at three in the morning when you wanted to kill yourself," he spoke bluntly, amused expression turning into a more serious and contemplating one "whatever wall existed between us when these sessions started was thoroughly knocked down when you decided to call me for help that night, and you know it," he added, watching her become more and more upset by the second; he didn't give a fuck if he was cutting a hole in whatever little speech she'd had planned for him, she needed to hear this "and I've politely refrained from asking you why it was me you called, and not Potter or your ginger tumour, I've let this whole thing go without pushing you on it and I've respected the fact that you didn't want anyone to know, because it wasn't my secret to tell – but you are an adult, and so am I, we don't play pretend anymore, so you can stop pretending that everything is just going to be as it was. We didn't just kiss, it was a fucking make out session and it's pretty damn obvious that our 'relationship' is no longer strictly professional – not that it ever was – so stop sitting there with your high chin and your delusions and remember that you are a twenty three year old woman, not a giggling teenage girl," he finished on a sharper note than he had intended, watching her stew and boil as she got angrier and angrier. Of course, that had a mirroring effect on him, considering he hadn't taken his meds that morning, and thus, he could feel an argument coming on.

"Yes," she snapped "we are adults, and there is no reason why the lines between our professional and personal relationship should become blurred-"

"Oh don't be ridiculous," he shot, sitting forward "we never had a damn professional relationship to begin with, you hated me when we started these sessions and I didn't trust you in the slightest, that wasn't professional, it was insanity, which, ironically, is what you're supposed to be treating me for right now"

His words brought an abrupt silence to the room in which he huffed and sunk back into his seat, tipping his neck back and closing his eyes, trying to calm himself down. He didn't want to lose it right now, he'd had a good couple of weeks, no anger incidents, and he didn't want his hiccup to be Granger, not at the moment anyway.

He watched her trying to keep calm as well, her breathing slowly returning to its norm, the angry flush that always warmed her face when she was close to shouting draining so she went pale again. It felt like they'd been building up to that little outburst for weeks after all the things between them they'd been brushing under the carpet and not discussing. Who was he kidding? He hadn't been particularly mature either – not that he was going to admit that of course. He wasn't going to apologise either, she had pissed him off, he had pissed her off. It would be at least a few days before he would even consider backing down in the pride department yet.

After about three minutes, she drew in a deep, shaky breath, and hugged her knees up over her stomach, tucking them under her lowered chin. He knew that gesture, she was shutting him out and slamming her stupid metaphorical walls up, which he absolutely hated because it meant he had to decipher her thoughts through her body language. He sighed deeply, sitting forward once more, bowing his head and running a hand through his already messy hair, mussing it a little as a stress reflex. Eventually he built up the oomph ready to relent, and stood, moving to crouch in front of her. His hands were quivering a little the way that they always did when he was coming down from a small rage spike, but he placed them softly on her forearms where they were wrapped around her knees nonetheless.

"Granger," he began, voice croaky from the adrenaline rush "I just want you to get it," he half-breathed "I want you to figure out with that infuriatingly brilliant brain of yours, what I'm trying to say," he said.

She continued to stare at her feet and he rolled his eyes feebly, wetting his lips and shuffling closer, moving his hands to hold either side of her face "I don't _want _to yell at you, you know," his thumb stroked over her cheekbone "I just want you to understand that this stuff is difficult for me too and I don't want us to keep being infants and ignoring the fact that we're ridiculously attracted to each other, I want something to become of this and I don't want you to resent me for your own damn feelings"

Her eyes were wet where tears had welled but not fallen, and her breathing was a little quivery as he gently pried her arms away from her knees and settled her legs down either side of him. He dropped onto his knees, sat up, and took the back of her head with his hand, pulling her into him and wrapping his own arms around her, breathing in her scent and feeding off of her warmth, closing his eyes when she tightly locked her arms around his waist and buried her head in his shoulder. Shit, this entire thing was going to be really, really difficult. It was one of the most risky investments he'd ever made.

He didn't know if it would be worth it, if it would break him or make him – but then that had always been the case from the moment they'd started these sessions. They had always been on shaky ground, and probably always would be. So fucking what, he decided, bad ideas were his forte. All he knew was that feeling Granger's thinner frame against his, hearing her breathing and understanding more and more of her every day – it was something he had grown accustomed to, something he was attached to. He didn't want to give it up, not matter how stupid or absurd the entire thing would be.

"I still don't like you," she murmured against his collar bone, lips moving against it, causing him to have to repress a shiver.

"Not many people do these days Granger," he replied with a deep breath in, pulling her impossibly closer.

And that, it seemed, was the end of that conversation.

* * *

"They have a baby section," she sniffed when she felt him move to stand beside her "how fucking sick is that? They actually have to have a baby section," she breathed, shaking her head as another tear overflowed from her eyes and dripped down her face of its own accord. She sniffed again and wiped it away with her gloved hand like it had offended her. He drew in a shaky breath and nodded, sparing his baby sister's headstone a small glance from where it was a couple of rows away. There were fresh black roses on it, seeing as he had just come from there. He'd turned to leave and spotted Granger stood over her baby daughter's grave and, of course, had gone to be beside her.

"There's nothing we can do about it Granger," he sighed, pulling his scarf off and wrapping it softly around her neck, tweaking it a little so it warmed some of her chin and ears as well "there's nothing we could have done at the time either, it was no one's fault, it was just something that happened and we can spend our entire lives wondering if there was something we could have-" he cut himself off for a second, swallowing the choking lump in his throat and ignoring the stinging in his tear ducts "the truth is, nature was cruel to us and we couldn't control it, so we should just stop trying to understand it," he said, voice croaky from the cold.

Some more tears fell over her thin cheeks and he wet his lips with his tongue, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She threaded her own arms around her waist but kept her eyes on her daughter's name carved in stone – Bethany Alana Granger.

"What does the middle one mean?" he asked a little while later when they'd been stood there, using each other's body heat so they didn't go mad. She pulled in a quivering bout of Oxygen and smiled, pressing her forehead against his temple and kissing his cheek.

"Little Rock," she replied "it's Celtic"

He rolled his eyes, but smiled back slightly, leaning into her touch and closing his eyes at her hot breath on the side of his face, condensing in wisps in the air, mixing with his own. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her closer to the side of his body, breathing in her scent.

He hated this entire place, especially in the winter when the snow blanketed everything and made it look beautiful. Places like this shouldn't look beautiful or scenic, he thought, they should be ugly and unappealing, representative of what it really was – home of the dead. But then again, thinking of it as ugly didn't feel right either, he didn't want his sister resting in an ugly rotting courtyard, that kind of place was where his father belonged, in a grave next to Voldemort, bound to his master even in death – it was only what they both deserved.

He wondered whether he would be with Granger now, if her baby hadn't died. He wondered how he'd feel towards her child if it were alive and in her arms now, crying or gurgling or grinning up at them with big brown eyes and tufts of curly brown hair. She'd never told him about who the father had been. He doubted it was Weasley, whenever she interacted with the guy he always behaved like the situation was separate from him. He didn't ask her though, if she wanted to tell him, she would and he didn't really need to know.

All he really knew was that she had loved the child, the child had died, and she had buried it here the same way that his family had buried his little sister. When he'd first started sessions with Granger a year and a half back, it just seemed insignificant, something they had in common that he could ignore on his part, and use against her on hers. But of course, in typical Granger fashion, she had to be inconvenient and make him fall in love with her. He hadn't told her yet, he doubted he would, not unless a moment cropped up in the future when he felt it particularly necessary, or even a moment when he could actually get the words out because they'd only been together for six months and it had taken him four of those just to admit it to himself.

She still treated him psychologically… in a way. They didn't have sessions anymore and his mother had stopped paying her at his request, but she could normally get him to talk, in the dead of night when she was laying naked and comfortable against him, taking up half the freaking bed as usual. She still helped him out with his exercises to calm down. He still took the medication when he was going through rough patches and he still had to go to the gym every day to work off the aggression he didn't want to bring home with him.

She'd relapsed three times in the months they had been dating, and on every single occasion he had bandaged them for her, handed her a bottle of alcohol and kept her yacking on about that bastard Shakespeare or that other prat she liked called Hardy or something. A mini argument about Tess D'Urberville or King Lear could normally take half of her mind off the fact that she was bleeding out through her wrists and it was her own doing. He'd like to say that their relationship was the idealistically written version of two young lovers who were mentally ill or challenged, but it really wasn't. They yelled until their throats could bleed and they were blue in the face, and threw things and smashed things up when they were arguing. Sometimes they didn't talk to each other for days on end. They weren't joined at the hip, they didn't need to be texting or calling each other all the stupid fucking hours of the day.

He only kissed her scars when he was feeling particularly haunted by his past or if she was locked on and needed bringing back to reality – but he let her know frequently that he didn't find them anymore beautiful or tragic than she found his fading dark mark. He had to force her to eat sometimes, and she had to force him to sleep. Date night was a Friday when they would normally have their session, and they either went out for a slap up meal or got drunk and watched crap TV. The only glamorous thing about their relationship was the fact that he brought her too much expensive junk, and she only wore it if she was in a particularly good mood. Draco was extraordinarily possessive, and she hated it and normally ended up screaming at him when they got back to either one of their respective apartments if he'd done something as a result of it. She was extraordinarily self-righteous and they'd actually argued in a near public setting because she couldn't stop being an asshole and he couldn't keep his mouth shut about it until they got home.

All in all, it was in no way the perfect love story. A lot of the time they didn't even like each other. But for some unfathomable, ridiculously impossible, incorrigible reason, it seemed to work. And for a lot of reasons he never went into, he was hopelessly, foolishly in love with her. And again, for reasons he couldn't even begin to understand in his fucked up, emotionally stunted brain, he didn't mind one tiny little bit. Well, not very often anyway.

Now was one of those times when he knew she needed him as much as he needed her, whether either of them voiced that need or not, and he knew not to mollycoddle her or anything – she just needed physical contact, a clear head explaining her feelings back to her, and a good, loving fuck later on when they retired to bed. He didn't really see anything in their future, one of his rules had always been that he wasn't going to have children or get married – he didn't want to put that kind of awful fate on anyone – but he had come to the conclusion, that if he ever was going to do the whole white picket fence and wedding bells, it would probably be with Granger and her ugly baggy t-shirts and bratty temper.

"You're alright?" she asked a little while later after they had been stood in silence. He snorted bitterly and huffed, hand tightening from where it rested at the curve of her waist. Her hand slipped under his coat, cold against his bare skin. He didn't protest, allowing her to use it as a bit of a radiator for the moment. She pressed a peck to the corner of his mouth and smiled against his sharp cheekbone, eyes closed softly.

"I'm holding up. Not a trigger night, is it?" he asked, wondering whether he'd be cleaning blood stained wrists later on or not. Not. If he could help it anyway. He'd freeze her body before he let her do it in his company – she normally called him afterwards for help – but he wanted to know if he would be fighting her on it later.

"Probably, but you're staying over tonight, aren't you?" she replied quietly in a croaky, exhausted voice. He nodded against her, thumb stroking over the fabric covering her ribs, other hand going in his pocket.

"Yes," he spoke, and he knew from her continued silence that she wanted him to keep talking. He sighed, rolling his eyes "I'll check on my mother and then I'll come over with some food. Do I need to hex you so you can't move until I get back or are you going to behave yourself because I swear to god Granger if you make me clean up your mess one more time-"

"I'll be fine," she stopped him stonily, although her body didn't pull away and her hand settled gently on his happy trail, nails tracing through the small spattering of hair there. He growled at her softly and turned his head sideways to nip at her earlobe, getting her to stop. She grinned, nibbling her chapped bottom lip but resting her fingers against his skin, stationary once more. The little minx knew that was a sensitive spot for him.

"For the record," he added a few moments later "you know I'll clean up your messes for as long as you need me to, don't you Granger?" he huffed again. She chuckled smoothly, bringing a hand up to turn his head once more, pushing up on her toes ever so slightly, and catching his top lip between her own, warm and sure, lingering there for a moment before dropping back down.

"Can we go now, I hate this place," she requested with a shiver and a grimace. He nodded regally and took her hand, guiding her away from her daughter's grave and back along the middle isle towards the church. He wanted to fuck, and then he wanted to sleep and he didn't want to get up in the morning. The only thing was, Granger was infuriatingly excited about Christmas, and would no doubt be pulling the covers off of his bare backside at fucking seven o'clock in the morning with a birds nest for hair and an irritatingly beautiful giant grin on her face.

Bah Fucking Humbug.

* * *

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

He hissed when a body landed on his back, knees either side of his hips where she was sitting on him, covers crumpled and empty on her side of the bed.

"Goddamn it woman, go away," he groaned, voice muffled by the pillow his face was buried in "and take your infernal good mood with you, it's too early," he added grumpily for good measure. He knew it was futile; she'd make him move sooner or later, it was what strategy she'd use that he wasn't able to predict. He let out a huff of masochism when her body shifted down the bed slightly and her chapped lips began press warm kisses up the dip of his spine, the tip of her wicked little tongue grazing his skin each time. He felt his body stir and his consciousness becoming lazily more aware as she reached his neck and began catching the skin between her teeth in gentle little nips. It was only when her body pressed right against his back and her playful nips turned into impatient suckles, that he rolled his eyes into the pillow, growled, and flipped her over briskly, swallowing her little sound of surprise with a kiss that had her forget her little task for a few moments, his own tongue brushing teasingly over hers.

She did remember herself however, and pulled his face away, glaring cheekily at him "I'm not that stupid," she pouted, eyes still narrowed "you can't play me at my own game Draco Malfoy"

"Make me move then," he replied with a sleepy smirk. She gave him that look that meant she wanted to go do something productive, but was also tempted by the morning boner pressing against her thigh and really was struggling between the urge to leave the bed, or to fuck him. Her determinism won out however and she shook her head with that gorgeous little smile she knew he was particularly partial to, pushed up a little to press a peck to the tip of his nose because she knew how much it annoyed him, and slipped out from underneath him, yanking the duvet from the bed as she went.

"Ten minutes Malfoy, or I'm going to hex you and levitate you down the stairs," she said from the doorway as he looked at her through one eye from his slumped position on the bed. Okay, so he had to admit, he was stupidly attracted to her unattractiveness in the mornings. Her hair was fucking ridiculous, her eyes were puffy and lined with the evidence of insomnia, his shirt was all wonky and skewif on her body, and there were lines on her face where it had been pressed against the creased pillow. To people who didn't see her like this every morning, and didn't have a specific and annoying weakness to Granger and her general intricacies, she wouldn't be considered desirable at all during the early hours of the day. He found, however, that even when she took on a likeness to a squirrel that had been dragged through shrubbery in different directions, he wanted to bury his face in the birds nest on top of her head, and kiss across her collar bone whilst listening to her read a John Green novel out loud.

He simply closed his eyes and twisted his mouth in displeasure, listening dozily to her naked feet padding down the varnished stairs and the central heating turning on. He didn't know why she paid the bill to be honest, she was a witch, she could just use a heating charm for free. But then again, it was Granger, and she was all obsessed with keeping to her muggle roots. He huffed after an extra two minutes of trying to remain somewhere between sleep and awake, his body reminding him that she would most definitely be following through with her threats if he remained tangled up in the sheets any longer, and stumbled out of bed, heading for her en-suit, grumbling about sleeping patterns and bossy witches as he went.

He didn't spend that long in the shower, the cold water doing most of the work to get rid of his morning problem, making him much more awake, and much grumpier. He did try to keep in mind however, that Christmas was important to Granger, that she was trying hard not to break down and crumble since it was her first Christmas without her parents, and that she was doing really fucking well so far. Although, he did guess that she was probably downstairs trying to compose herself before he went down so he wouldn't see her crying.

The question had arisen only a week beforehand as to why he was spending Christmas Eve and day with her, when he had a mother and a godfather at the manor that he could be making pleasantries with. The answer was, that he didn't really want to be at that place at this time of year – it gave him the creeps, and in some rooms, still smelt of his father. No, as much as he didn't care for Christmas, he'd rather wake up to Granger yelling at him to get up early and drink too much egg nog wrapped up on the sofa watching crap holiday television.

Despite his hatred of waking up early, even for Christmas morning, he was mildly looking forward to venturing downstairs to the living room. He'd managed to procure Granger a couple of rather fantastic gifts and as cheesy and sickening as it sounded, he wanted to enjoy the look on her face when she opened them.

"Granger, I swear to god if you're expecting me to be awake this early without coffee, I'm leaving you," he shouted down the stairs as he pulled his loose sweatpants up to rest on his hips, and finally started moving towards wherever she was tottering around on the first floor.

"Already a step ahead of you," she half-sang as he came into the smaller living room, and she carried two coffees in from the mini kitchen, setting them down on the table and waiting for him to join her on the floor by that infernal bloody tree she'd insisted on putting up in her lounge covered in colourful balls and sparkly shit that got _everywhere_.

"Okay, before you grumble awkwardly at me because you're absolutely terrible at accepting presents, just let it be known that I'm not expecting you to cry with happiness, so just… open it, and try not to be too much of a bastard," she spoke in a half-nervous, half-excited voice, and he couldn't help the small smile twitching on his lips as he took the gift from her. It was quite obviously a book, although he had no idea what kind of book. It wasn't leather bound, or particularly heavy. He smiled softly at her again for good measure, before he tore off the wrapping paper and frowned. It was a scrap book, messy and brown, obviously brought from a muggle store. He glanced at her once more before he opened it and he had to swallow so he didn't well up like a fucking child, trying to keep his breathing steady, he blinked a couple of times to get rid of the rather embarrassing wetness.

The first page was a title page, and Grangers neat, loopy writing formed letters reading 'improvements Draco Malfoy has made in the past year, and how I fell in love with him'. _Christ_ this was just… not what he'd been expecting at all. He didn't know why he hadn't predicted something like this, it was so Granger-esque, so charming and thoughtful, that he physically hurt in his chest with the effort to remain some form of stoic exterior. He drew in a deep breath, and turned the page. It started with records from his file – the first months of their sessions all scribbles about what she'd tried to figure out back when he had refused to talk about himself, random musings, doodles in the margins, tiny, disappointed notes.

Then it changed when they'd had their first actual session in which he'd spoken properly, a diagnosis and a few excited little illustrations of how pleased she'd been, with little comments on how much she still had trouble looking past their history. Then it changed to reports on his little hiccups – the time he'd lashed out at work and almost been fired and arrested, when they'd found him unconscious in his flat because he'd overdosed on his medication and the way they had dealt with those happenings as patient and psychiatrist.

It then featured receipts from when they'd done the sessions in coffee shops and restaurants for lunch, comments on how he was tired, comments on how his weight was back up to being healthy, comments on how much he was smirking and smiling and making snide remarks again. The rest of the book was literally evidence for the way their relationship had developed, the recordings of sessions getting less and less as post it notes illustrating their time together talked more of the way he'd made her laugh, and the little tiffs they'd had became more frequent. Little parts of it described off-handed nights they'd had sex, nights they had stopped talking because of a more serious argument that had taken place, dates they'd been on where he'd tipped the waiter and presented her with a new bracelet that she'd complained about the price of. Others made notes on all the less materialised things he'd done for her, making a rather angry accidentally passionate speech to a foreign minister that had refused to let her pass a legislation on elf rights in Syria, punching Weasley in the face when he had made a snappy, jealous comment about her weight gain since she'd been with him.

By the time he'd come to the end of it, the little part of his brain that crippled him with self-loathing because of his abysmal choices in the past, had been shut down when he really did realise the gravity of his repentance, the sheer depth of how far he'd come, how much he had worked to be a better person. He didn't even realise that he was holding his breath and that his jaw was tensed and hot tears were rolling down his cheekbones, not until his fingers closed the book of their own accord and he looked up at Granger, who was also teary, her lips pursed together, curved in a hopeful smile. Jesus fucking Christ… she actually loved him. This ridiculous, stubborn, loud, annoying, intelligent, glorious, beautiful woman was in love with him, and she wanted him around. He- he didn't even know how he was supposed to compute that.

"G-" he made to start, but it caught in his throat slightly, before he forced himself to speak "Granger, y-you fucking asshole," he coughed a little, smiling back at her and shaking his head, still trying to breathe properly "this is- this is too much-"

Her finger pressed against his lips, shushing him "I did tell you I wasn't expecting you to cry with happiness Draco," she said gently, here big brown eyes shining with an intense pride "you just had to be a git and actually cry, didn't you?" she half-sobbed, her own emotions getting the better of her now "oh merlin," she huffed, shuffling closer and kneeling up, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his neck. It took him a second, but he eventually managed to hug her back, closing his eyes and trying to remember how immensely good his life was in this moment, because he was Draco Malfoy, and he didn't doubt that it would all go balls-up at some point for him. Either way, he just knew that it was Christmas morning and he was actually crying in front of someone, and _fuck_ he _hated_ Granger just as much as he loved her sometimes.

"I do you know," she whispered against his ear shakily "I do love you," she repeated. He swallowed, pulled her body in closer against his, and pressed a rough kiss to her shoulder.

"You infernal woman," he mumbled, sniffing slightly "you know I love you too"

And that was the end of that conversation.

* * *

"Granger," he said one day as she perched on his desk, curls tucked behind her ears, bottom lip caught between her teeth, quill scribbling away at the paperwork for a case she was helping the department with "marry me," he said casually. Immediately her eyes went wide, she flailed and nearly fell off the desk, sending the ink pot clattering to the floor as she coughed and spluttered and tried to catch her balance.

"_What_?" she replied, a little taken aback to say the least. He rolled his eyes, sat back in his chair on the other side of the room where he was surrounded by books looking up Greek runes, and shrugged at her, a smirk playing at his lips.

"You heard me," he spoke nonchalantly again "marry me"

"Is this a joke?" she asked seriously, actually looking concerned for his mental health. He tutted, shaking his head and maintaining eye contact.

"Of course not Granger," he sighed "what do you take me for? That wouldn't be funny, and I wouldn't just say it if I didn't mean it," he reasoned, shrugging again. She blinked a few times, still bewildered and looking as though she expected him to rip off his shirt and start performing a number from Les Mis.

"B-but you hate marriage," she stuttered, throwing her hands up in exasperation "you think it's pointless and overrated and costly and you told me when I was treating you, you never want to get married because of what it did to your parents-"

"Granger," he cut her off before she could get ahead of herself "that was before you came along with your hair and your ugly sweaters and your stupid, logicless traditions. I don't agree with marriage," he confirmed "but I think I'd rather like to marry _you_, if you don't mind of course," he added in an over-polite manner that she scowled at, now over the original waves of bemusement.

"This isn't funny Draco," she half-growled.

"I know Granger," he rolled his eyes again "I just said that. But seriously, I just proposed to you, the least you could do is give me an answer," he smiled charmingly. Again, this just made her narrow her eyes at him.

"Can you please try and see this from my point of view Malfoy? You did just ask me to marry you"

"Yes, I did, and its kind of embarrassing that you haven't said yes or no yet. You know I don't like to be kept waiting," he half-snapped, getting impatient. She loosened up a bit, watching his expression for a hint of mirth or jokiness. Apparently, she didn't even detect a hint of it, because her eyes widened again, her breath hitched, and her spine straightened out.

"You're serious?" she asked, not blinking. He huffed, stood up, one hand in the pocket of his waistcoat, and walked over to where she was still sat on the desk. She gasped, hands clapping to her mouth when he got down on one knee with a slightly bored look, and met her eyes again when he pulled out a ring. He'd rather hoped he didn't have to do it traditionally, but she was being difficult – and actually, he didn't much mind this. She was looking down at him with joy and wonder mixed with anger and… yes, he knew that look, she was trying to decide whether she wanted to slap him, or kiss him. The second option won out when she dropped her hands from her mouth, grinned wildly at him, bottom lip still trapped between her teeth, and nodded furiously. He let out a rather audible sound of relief, and got to his feet again. Immediately, he was knocked back on his legs a few paces however, arms wrapping around his neck quite tightly, Hermione sobbing against his chest. Through the exasperation, he smiled back at her, the realisation sinking in that she really had said yes, she was actually going to marry him, and it was okay. Everything he'd been afraid of, despite the laid back way in which he'd originally asked her, she had agreed to fucking marry him.

Holy shit, he was getting married. To Hermione Granger. He started laughing a little at how much she was crying, but also because his father would be turning in his grave if he knew what his son had just done. To be honest, it had worried him when he'd been buying the ring, but now he didn't really give a fuck. Granger, although a bane on his entire existence most of the time, was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Which reminded him, Granger was still crying and muttering that she loved him against his shirt, and he was still chuckling at her as his nervousness settled and it sunk in, she wasn't wearing the ring.

"Granger, this piece of jewellery was really fucking expensive okay, so stop leaking tears everywhere for a sec so you can actually put the damn thing on," he spoke, the sound muffled slightly against her hair. She made a sound of realisation and remembrance and broke apart from him, still grinning and covered in her own tears. He couldn't stop smiling, and he tutted at her again, slipped the silver band around her finger, and hiccuped in surprise when she grabbed his face and basically shoved her tongue down his throat. Not that he was complaining of course, kissing Granger was still one of his favourite parts of the day, and as hot as it was when she was this passionate, he was rather glad when it slowed down a little – he liked his desk, it was new and he didn't want them to end up fucking on it.

"You absolute knob jockey," she breathed when their lips broke apart but their foreheads remained pressed together. He smirked, arms loosening a little around her waist "seriously that was one of the shittiest proposals in history," she added with a mutual laugh, fingers stroking absent-mindedly through the hair at the back of his head.

"Thank you Granger," he replied, voice a little croaky and far away from all the arousal and stupid damn happiness "I do try"

"You're hopeless at this stuff, you know that, don't you?"

"You'd have hated it if I'd proposed in a restaurant," he replied accusingly "you hate being the centre of attention in public"

"True," she agreed "I have to admit I like this way better, although I genuinely thought I was going to have to admit you to a mental institution for a moment there," she pressed a peck to the side of his mouth. He raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes lazily to meet her gaze.

"Don't I always need admitting to a mental institution?"

"Not always," she sighed, moving in to hug him again, nuzzling her nose against his throat "I'm crazier than you these days"

"Touche," he chuckled, smirking further when she slapped his arm without pulling away. It was probably true, but then he wondered if that had always been the case. Not that it really mattered anymore anyway, abnormal behaviour was the norm for them now.

"Please don't tell me you're going to want to have kids after this?" she sighed against him. He snorted and shook his head.

"Christ no, I'm not putting you through that again, not unless you ever feel the intense need for one. Besides, I'm not exactly father material am I?" he considered, tracing a hand gently up and down the dip of her spine beneath her blouse.

"Touché," she chuckled softly, although he could tell she was glad to have confirmation that there would be no baby birthing in their future. It was true, he never wanted to put her through something like that again. And the whole process was something of a trigger for him as well. He had no idea if he'd even be able to handle the pregnancy, let alone actually having a child. He was barely responsible for himself and his girlfriend, how was he supposed to bring up a kid? No, absolutely not. If it changed in the far future, then they'd probably talk about it again, but he doubted it would, the baby graves they visited every year were sort of a black mark guarantee on that.

"But I'm not talking to Weasley at the wedding, the bastard can keep his opinions to himself," he grumbled into her shoulder.

"Its our wedding," she said sternly, still not pulling away from him "you'll play nice, or it's not happening," she insisted.

And, well, that was the end of that conversation.


End file.
